What Doesn't Kill You
by laquila
Summary: ...Simply Makes You Strangers on a Train. Rachel uses Gotham City's public transportation system and instantly regrets it when she meets a man with an odd smile and sees something she probably shouldn't. Takes place soon after "Begins." Rachel/Joker.
1. Chapter 1

_"My theory is that everyone is a potential murderer." - Bruno Anthony, __Strangers on a Train_

...

"Hey! Hey, hey , hey, pretty girl! That's right. Too good to look over here? Yeah? Bitch."

Rachel walked faster past the shuffling man on the sidewalk, hunched over an empty rusted shopping cart. He was calling to her. Reaching his hand toward her. And she hated it.

Walk confidently and with purpose. Always carry a whistle and pepper spray. Always be mindful of your surroundings. She kept meaning to take that self-defense class they offered at work. Always too busy was Rachel Dawes. Never a moment to herself. There was always the next case and the one after that and the one after that. This city wasn't going to fix itself. And really, taking a self defense class showed little confidence in a city she was hell-bent on recovering.

So when some desperate screw-up made a comment usually ending in "You bitch" or "worthless cunt," Rachel would have only those fleeting desires to take the class before walking away, guiltily ignoring the human face of all she was working for. All the while, that nagging voice in the back of her mind calling her hypocrite and reminding her she worked in mere ideals.

As Rachel stepped onto the train platform, she couldn't quite get the man's leering face out of her head. She reminded herself that she was the one who had run from him. He was probably harmless and crying out for help and she had ignored him.

The train came screeching to a halt in front of her as if screaming a reminder of where she was. She told herself that she had to stop dwelling in her own thoughts and get home to feed the cat.

Rachel looked down. There was a huge gaping hole between the concrete platform and the open door of the train. She hated those. She took a shaky breath and hopped the distance of the bottomless gap.

Really, there was no point in dwelling on these things.

She sat down on the seat nearest to the door and took in her surroundings. The first thing she noticed was that she was alone. This she hated more than the gigantic trench she had just conquered. There was nothing more discomfiting than riding an empty subway car. She would have rather entered one teeming with Maroni's gangster buddies than one that threatened unknown menaces.

Rachel tried to tell herself that she was being ridiculous, that her fear was simply that. It was small, pointless and disgusting. With all its bravado and self-importance, this particular fear was something that needed to be accepted, used, and then tossed away like a soiled sponge.

But that fear was being true to its spongey nature because, in no time at all, it had soaked up Rachel's resistance to it.

Screw acceptance. She was just going to go right ahead and toss that sponge back in the sink. She'd do the dishes later. But first, she'd go over to the next car and find some human contact.

Oh right. Feed the cat, do dishes, then find boyfriend who doesn't leave you to go jump off rooftops.

Rachel stood up and staggered her way over to the next car, hoping there'd be at least one other person over there. The train lurched around a particularly sharp turn and Rachel quickly grabbed hold of the hand rail. She swung open the door that connected the two moving cars with her other hand and looked through.

This was a bad idea. The quest to conquer the gap was nothing compared to this. There was a narrow walkway held together by suspension wires. There was a thin metal bar on either side that she supposed was to serve as a handrail. A cruel joke made by the engineers of this death trap, more like.

Above her, sparks flew where the train connected with the narrow tubing of the subway. Rachel didn't even want to look at what would be below. Instead, she looked through the glass window that led into the next car to make sure this would even be worth it.

There were two men in the car that she could see. They appeared to be talking with each other. One was sitting down and looking up at another man who stood, holding with one steadying hand to the bar above his head and gesturing animatedly with his other.

Rachel took about five deep breaths and tried to think about the lesser of two evils - being choked with loneliness or falling to her agonizing death by subway car crushing.

She chose the crushing death. At least it would be quick.

Rachel closed her eyes - perhaps in hindsight not the wisest of ideas - and navigated the lurching walkway in three shaky steps. When she opened her eyes again, she was in the next car, no longer alone, and exuberant.

Her exuberance, however, was short lived. The men whom she had thought were a pair of friends having an animated discussion, were not at all what they appeared to be. The man seated - she could barely see him behind the larger, standing man - was watching as the man above him waved a pistol in his direction.

The man being threatened was, from what Rachel could see, much smaller, thinner, and younger than the other man. he wore a ratty olive colored corduroy suit and dirty white sneakers. His hair hung in his face and partly hid his eyes behind a limp fringe of dirty blonde. Yet Rachel heard no cries for help from this man.

The older man with the gun leaned a bit to the left and Rachel caught a glimpse of the younger man's face.

He was smiling.

Rachel couldn't suppress a shudder and the thought that everything she knew was wrong. But she shook it away and forced herself to think of the man who had called out to her earlier. A thinly disguised plea for help. She wasn't going to let this one pass. So she reached into her bag for her tazer and crept silently towards the attacker and his victim.

The smiling man's eyes flicked towards her and his grin got even wider.

"Stop!" Rachel's voice sounded small even to her own ears as she held out her measly weapon with a shaking hand. And once again came the thought that this was all wrong.

The man with the gun instinctively turned towards her and everything changed in an instant. The smiling man stood up like he had just popped out of a Jack-in-the-box. He twisted the larger man's arm behind him, wrenched the gun from his grip, and sent it skidding in Rachel's direction. And before she could close her eyes to block out what she had known was coming since she saw that hateful grin on that too young face, that same smiling man pulled a knife and slid it effortlessly across the other man's thick neck.

The man made a gargling wet gasping sound and fell to his knees. The smiling man nudged him the rest of the way down with one knee - never taking his eyes off of the dying man's face as if he was trying to decipher some encrypted foreign language. Even as he cleaned his bloodied knife along his trousers, leaving strange brownish streaks on the fabric, the smiling man watched as the other took his final, wheezing breath. He cocked his head to one side when the scene that must've lasted less than a minute but seemed to last hours, came to an end. Smiles placed his knife gingerly back into his coat pocket and said in a strangely nasal voice, "Now. That's much better. Much better, isn't it, Comrade?"

Rachel's legs wouldn't move. She was frozen, the tazer useless in her trembling hand, when the smiling man looked at her again. She saw him for the first time - really saw him. His skin was sallow and pale and his eyes were beautiful and gleaming but hidden in shadow. His smile was wrong, though. Like so much else. He had two scars on either cheek, drawing the corners of his mouth up in a grotesque sneer. Then that horrible mouth opened and he spoke the words to her that she instantly regretted hearing.

"Thanks, Friend."


	2. Chapter 2

_"I may be old-fashioned, but I thought murder was against the law." -Guy Haines, Strangers on a Train_

_..._

Rachel thought, insanely, that her poor cat was going hungry and the dishes were still in the sink. Why she should think such mundane things right before her impending death was a mystery.

The smiling man waved one hand as if to prompt her to speak and his voice came out even higher than usual as if to imitate her. "You're welcome. C'mon, two words. That's all. Yoouuu're...weeeelll-"

"What did you do?" Rachel hated the fact that her voice sounded so small.

"What? Him?" The smiling man glanced briefly at the man who's life he had just ended. The look he gave him was fleeting - as if this man was a bug he had just crushed under one of his tattered sneakers. Rachel could barely believe she was even having this conversation with this psychopath. It was surreal. And she couldn't help but notice that this same man, who was slowly moving towards her with an inquisitive look on his face, still held that same knife at his side. It twitched in his fingers as he spoke. He was slowly tapping it against the side of his leg.

"This needed to be done, gorgeous. Thinning out the herd, is what it is." And then his shoulders began to shake ever so slightly. She thought that maybe he was trembling. She thought that maybe he was so overcome with emotion after what he had just done, that he couldn't contain himself any longer. But that was wrong, too. The sound that came from his twisted lips was anything but remorseful. It was joyful. Glorious. He was laughing so hard, his whole body shook. All thoughts of the cat and dirty dishes flew from Rachel's mind. This was serious.

He was getting closer to her. Each careful step he took brought him within arm's length. And still she was rooted to the spot, unable to move, hardly able to speak.

It was then that he got an excited look on his face like he had just thought of something absolutely brilliant. "Have you ever heard of...Jonathan Swift - uh - I think. Yes. Ah - _A Modest Proposal_?" He was speaking so quickly, so excitedly, that he stuttered and stumbled over his words.

But Rachel nodded. She couldn't believe she nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's like that. Sometimes these things have to happen. To, uh, even out the score." He giggled. "Sometimes. Sometimes what we have to do is cook those goddamn babies and eat 'em!"

Rachel stared at him with wide eyes and knew with perfect clarity that if she didn't leave now, if she didn't escape from him in this instant, that she would never be able to. So she ran. She spun around toward the door that she had so much trouble getting through in the first place and her hands fumbled with the handle. It was slippery with some mystery subway grime and Rachel felt like throwing up.

It was pointless. He was beside her in an instant, his hand clamping hard over hers on the handle.

"You can't leave so soon. We only just met! You're going to make me feel all, uh, all incompetent." He said this low in the shell of her ear. She felt his whole body flush against her back and she shuddered in disgust and tried to squirm out from under his grip.

She heard his grunt of frustration and he spun her around to face him, slamming her against the door so that her back was facing the darkness and the sparks of the rushing cars outside. She couldn't help thinking that one wrong movement could send them both flying out the door and tumbling backwards to the tracks below.

But his grip on her was steady and strong. For one crazy moment, she almost - almost - found it comforting. But then she remembered the knife, the blood, and the smile and reconsidered.

"Now don't go doing anything you might regret later, snowflake. We've got one more stop and then we're both going to walk off this train like nothing happened. Just a couple of beautiful people out for a lovely evening. Maybe I'll, uh, take you to a movie later." He smiled and leaned his head to one side to whisper in her ear. "And if you really play your cards right, we might, uh, even make a night of it, right?" He eased his grip on her and looked around the car distractedly.

"You're crazy." She could hardly believe she had said it and she flinched instinctively, half expecting the knife he still held to do its work. But he was hardly paying any attention. He wasn't even looking at her but above her at the subway map on the wall.

"You could be right. Probably even make a good argument for it. But I'd win. I always do. ...Always..." He trailed off as the train slowed to a stop. He gripped her wrist and pulled her to the doors.

Rachel winced as she felt the delicate bones in her hand grind together under his fingers. "What makes you think I'll come with you?"

He snapped his head toward her and almost knocked her over with the mere force of his gaze. Shit. "Because if you don't, I'll kill you. I'll kill you and then I'll go find your apartment and kill your fucking cat."

Rachel wanted to throw up again, and this time it had nothing to do with the subway grime. How had he known about her cat? About her apartment? The rational side of her told her it was nothing. But the little paranoid voice in her head was shouting at her to run - run fast and run far because this clown had probably been stalking her for weeks.

"Coming Rachel dear?" He was looking over his shoulder at her expectantly. He knew her name, too. Great. She knew if she stepped out into the open with him, there would be no way back. This was the uncertainty of the empty subway car all over again. This was the gap to leap only this time she wasn't going to be alone. She wasn't sure what she preferred more.

"Stupid Bitch." He muttered under his breath and pulled her with him towards the now open doors. It was buzzing for them to move through. Rachel looked down as she followed him. There was no gap this time. No space to leap. The car was flush against the concrete.

Their stop was conspicuously empty. It was odd, like so much else. The platforms were usually teeming with people at rush hour. That's why he had been so distracted. That's why he had been studying the map. He had been planning their perfect escape.

Rachel looked over at him as he led them away from the train. His movements were quick and tense. He reminded her of her cat watching a fly buzz around her apartment. He darted between the columns and sprang up the steps that led out into the street, taking them two at a time, Rachel stumbling after him.

She couldn't fault him for wanting to leave the train as far behind them as possible. After all, the dead body would be found sooner rather than later and it would be best not to be in the area when they found it. Rachel shook her head. She had been with this man for all of twenty minutes and already she was thinking like some criminal. Now that she thought of it, she was accessory to a murder. She had helped him do the job. She had helped him "eat the baby" as he called it. And he had thanked her. Had called her friend.

"So where's home, kitten?"

Rachel hadn't noticed that he had spoken to her, hadn't even noticed that they had stopped walking until it was too late. Smiles grabbed her by the throat, firm enough to disable her but not in a bruising grip, and looked her straight in her eyes which were once again wide with fear.

"We don't have much time before they get here, muffin. Take me to your place. Now. Before I start to get mad.

She looked at him, her eyebrows sewn together in confusion. "I thought - my cat - the apartment-"

He whooped with laughter and released the hold on her neck. "You - you what? Thought I had been stalking you? That I'm some nut who's been following you around so that I could one day kidnap you, take you to my love dungeon and make you my bride of darkness? I don't work like that, doll face." He stared into her face but she was still silent. In shock, probably. He sighed and grabbed her by the hand and started walking again - toward what he didn't know. Yet.

"Listen. I'm gonna level with ya just because, heh, you happen to have what I want. Now pay attention, cause this doesn't happen very often with me. That guy I killed? Name of Ivan Slavinsky."

Rachel interrupted him, the realization evident in her lightened face. "Maroni's right hand man - the one responsible for the art gallery bombing.

Smiles raised his eyebrows. "Very good. You must watch the news after you give kitty his supper."

Rachel looked at him. No one knew Slavinsky's real name except for those on the inside. He must be CIA - some undercover government agent on assignment. She wanted to hug him she was so relieved. "Oh thank God." She murmured under her breath without even thinking about it.

Smiles chuckled "Nope, still just me, honey bunches. Aaanyway, this guy's, um, unfortunate accident will cause quite the mob ruckus. And frankly I don't want to be caught in the crossfire. Do you?" Rachel shook her head, still looking at him with that odd gleam in her eyes. It was unsettling. He'd have to put a stop to that behavior as soon as possible.

"I live on 30 West - the apartments above the library." It was Rachel's turn now to pull him in the direction she wanted. But even as she did so, even with her dawning realization that he was CIA, there was still that nagging thought in the back of her mind that this was all wrong. Especially now that the fact that she was dragging him along obviously struck him as very amusing as he burst into a fit of giggles behind her.

"Now that's more like it! I love a girl who knows what she wants and just goes right ahead and takes it. Be gentle with me, powder puff, it's my first time."

She glared back at him. "I'll take you to my place to hide out for a couple hours. A couple hours. That's it. And don't ever call me that again, got it?"

He got that stupid grin on his face and held up his hands in mock surrender. "Never again. Oh you are just _precious_, aren't you?"

Rachel rolled her eyes and continued down her street. His hand felt heavy and odd in hers and she tried not to remember that they were the same hands that had just so effortlessly and efficiently killed a man.

The unlikely pair arrived at her building and Rachel fumbled with her keys as the smiling man stared down at her. He leaned toward her and said in a low voice that threw her off guard. "Nervous?"

Rachel shot a biting look up at him, turned the key and pushed open her door, gesturing for him to go first. "Just get in, smiles."

He laughed, but there was no humor in his dark eyes. Just destruction. "I just killed a man in cold blood. You really think I'm going to turn my back on my one and only witness?" His fingers clamped hard around her upper arm and pushed her roughly in front of him. "You first, _Friend_." He was so closed again. Like on the train. Rachel felt sick to her stomach, but willed herself to calm down. There would be no sense in panicking. He was just being cautious. In this town, you never knew who was on which side. Never knew who was going to turn around and stab you in the back. Of course, she did know that this guy was more than likely to do just that.

"By the way, I'm going to pretend you didn't just make some incredibly, uh, insensitive comment about my horribly and unfortunately disfigured face and instead take heart in the fact that you've taken to me so much that you've started to give me pet names. Thanks, sweet cheeks!" He gave her arm a squeeze as he kicked the door shut behind them.

Rachel pried her arm from his grasp and looked into his face honestly. "I didn't mean - you smiled at me on the train. Before. That's all."

And there it was. That infuriating look again. Like she was reading an instruction manual and trying to figure out how slot A fit into slot B. Damn it all to fucking hell. He pushed past her, nearly knocking her over.

Rachel took him in as he stood, looking utterly at ease and yet so out of place in her apartment with it's HGTV inspired décor and brightly painted walls. He looked like he was going to be sick as he took in her stuffed animal collection collecting dust in one corner. He took off his corduroy suit jacket and loosened his faded tie from around his neck. Well, make yourself right at home, smiles.

He turned towards her, his actions short and abrupt. "You got a phone, fluffy?"

Rachel glared at him skeptically. "You need to call somebody?"

He just rolled his eyes, almost as if to say 'What the fuck do you think?' Rachel gestured to her tiny kitchen where the phone hung on the wall. Why he didn't have a cell phone and who he would be calling were just two of the many questions bouncing around insistently in her attorney's mind. She knew the letter of the law to a T, but she knew nothing of this guy she had invited into her home. Aside from the fact that he laughed a lot and had a penchant for knives, of course.

Smiles turned from her and disappeared into the darkened kitchen. There was a high pitched yowl, a low hiss and his insistent chuckle. He had found her cat.

Rachel could barely suppress a laugh of her own as Harry, all fur and fat, ran as fast as she had ever seen him. He streaked across her wooden floor and tumbled into the opposite wall before turning and finally hiding under her couch.

"Looks like that fucking cat eats better than you do." He had returned to the living room, once again looking around distractedly.

Rachel crossed her arms in front of her, a feeble protective gesture, and nodded at him. "I would have thought the CIA provides all its agents with high tech gadgetry. That doesn't include cell phones?"

He looked at her and raised one eye brow, smirking. "You would think that wouldn't you? What an interesting new development, huh?"

Fuck. He was moving towards her again. She glanced quickly at his hands. They were free of knives but Rachel was still on edge. He had absolutely no sense of personal space. Rachel was just beginning to rack her brain for what sort of blunt instruments she had lying around in her apartment with which she could use to fight him off, when he stopped a few inches from her and stared. He cocked his head to look at her and she was instantly reminded of the way he had looked at the dying man.

Rachel cleared her throat and looked away, searching for a way to distract him from his rather creepy observation of her. She licked her lips nervously and shuddered as he did the same. If he was consciously mimicking her or not, she didn't know.

"If you're planning on staying here, I need some answers first." She hated how shaky her voice sounded even to her own ears. He smiled but said nothing. For one crazy moment, she wanted to run her thumb along his marred lower lip. She shook her head to clear it. It was only because he was so close. Because she hadn't gotten any in a very long time. And because that mouth had fascinated her ever since she saw that twisted grin on his face even as a man twice his size pointed a gun at him.

He was far too amused. He told himself he'd kill her as soon as he got bored. But that just didn't seem to be happening. "Fair enough. Shoot."

She fought back the urge to ask the obvious question about the scars and instead settled on the simplest question of all. "What's your name?" All she was really expecting was some sort of first name and then a rush to get to the next question. But all he did was glare at her and blink once, twice before clearing his throat and adjusting his tie.

"You want honest answers, yes?" Rachel nodded, apprehensive. "Next question, then. Because any name I'd give you would be a lie."

"Fine. I want to know how you knew my name - about my apartment - and that I had a cat if you haven't, as you said, been following me."

He grinned wide. Now this was a question he liked. He was never one to pass up the opportunity to show off. "Well, here's the thing. I am what you might call perceptive. I look at someone and, uh, like that" he snapped his fingers and Rachel hated the fact that she flinched at the action. But he was still so close. And she was still so curious. "I see them." He swiped his tongue along that lower lip of his again and Rachel's breath caught in her throat. "It's like my super power!" He leaned back on his heels, looking horribly pleased with himself - like a five year old who had just caught a slimy toad.

Rachel gaped at him. She could suddenly feel a very bad headache coming on. A homicidal headache in a crappy suit. She rubbed her eyes, trying desperately to wake up. "Yeah. OK. You expect me to believe that, what? You put on your little turban of empathy and somehow saw into my soul?"

Smiles smacked his lips - his eyes flitting around the room before settling on her face again. He looked almost guilty. "Yeah..."

Rachel shook her head and muttered to herself. "I cannot believe I'm even having this conversation with you." She glared at him, her arms still crossed in front of her. "Listen. I'm a Gotham City District Attorney. Have been for three years. I know a thing or two about the world."

Smiles just shook his head and, true to his nature, smiled at her. "And yet you know nothing. First thing you need to know? You don't know the world. The world knows you. But straight talk it is, if that's what you want." He stood ramrod straight, clicked his heals together and gifted her with a mock salute. "Your name was on a security badge that was sticking out of your bag, You had cat hairs on your suit jacket. And who doesn't live in a fucking apartment in this city? You were riding the subway so I kinda figured you weren't penthouse material, Juicy Fruit."

Rachel gaped at him. He was actually making some sense. It boggled her mind. So she chanced the question she was sure would get her killed in any other circumstance.

"Why did you kill that man?"

His whole attitude changed in an instant. He was on her again, pressing her into the wall with the force of his body and his gaze. But he was still smiling. Always smiling.

"What? Did it scare ya, peaches? Hm? Afraid he'll do the same to you? And what's stopping him, huh? Nothing. Absolutely nothing." His hands were on her neck, then. Tightening around her throat. She couldn't breath and she squirmed against him, her eyes wide. He was looking at her with that knowing gaze. His head once again cocked to the side. He was going to kill her, she was sure of it. But then he wasn't smiling anymore and his grip loosened. He leaned his head onto her shoulder and the words he spoke next were muffled against the fabric of her blouse.

"Not going to. No, not today. Wouldn't be any fun, now would it?"

She was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her hands slid along the door he was holding her against. He wasn't moving. Just standing and breathing right along with her. She wasn't sure what he was trying to do but she knew she didn't want to stick around long enough to see him do it.

Her hand finally found the doorknob and started to turn it. But his hand came down on hers and ripped it away. "No need for that. I'm leaving soon anyway. Got things need to be done." He hadn't even raised his head from her shoulder. Just stood by her and leaned into her, muttering into her neck. She pressed herself as far into the door as possible, not sure what to expect next.

He straightened then and narrowed his eyes at her as he took a step back. "Can't go anywhere, though, if you keep, uh, blocking the door like that!" He shoved her then so roughly that she stumbled and landed on her hands and knees to the hard wood floor below.

He opened the door and stepped into the darkened hallway - half his face hidden in shadow as he turned back to speak to her.

"Oh and I'm, uh, not exactly CIA. Not even close,really. Looks like it takes more than three years to know the world, huh, Chief Justice Rachel?" He looked down at her as she stared back at him. Her eyes searching, hating, ashamed.

"Your hand's bleeding, sweetheart." He nodded at a long cut on her palm where she had fallen. "Might, uh, wanna get that looked at." He bit his lip to stifle a giggle and left her bleeding and alone. But she was breathing and she was alive. So very alive.


	3. Chapter 3

_"He sticks so close he's beginning to grow on me... like a fungus." Guy Haines, __Strangers on a Train_

_..._

Rachel walked through the darkened parking lot briskly, trying desperately to remember where she parked, and urging herself not to use the panic button. Yet. After her odd encounter in the subway, and later in her apartment, she had started to drive to work. There was no possible way she'd set foot in one of those trains again. She'd rather jump head first into the gaping hole between the train and the platform.

Rachel sighed with relief when she spotted her car, looking abandoned and alone in the empty parking lot. She was glad she at least had the foresight to park under one of the tall streetlamps. Her tiny car glowed red and welcoming.

She walked faster, her heals clicking along the sea of black pavement. She clutched her handbag closer and her eyes darted between the shadows, half expecting him to be lurking there. Every night she seemed to do this and every night the realization that he wasn't there left her with an odd combination of relief and emptiness.

She still had so many questions, after all.

There was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that, really, she should already know who he was. That, if she caught just one more glimpse of him, there'd be no question. She'd know him. She supposed that was why her anxiousness was a combination of dread and desire. She was morbidly curious by nature. She had been in love with a man who dressed up like a bat and jumped off rooftops, after all.

Had been.

Rachel hated speaking of Bruce in the past tense. It was just like losing him all over again. Sometimes, when she was alone and staring up at her ceiling in her bedroom, she'd wish that he had died after he had disappeared for so long. Selfishly, she thought, it would've been better not to have him at all than to have him so incomplete.

She hated herself in those lonely hours of staring before sleeping. Here was a man who had loved her completely - but not enough to give up that part of himself that made everything else so insignificant. Especially her. So she left him before he could leave her. Because he _would _leave her. Again and again he would. And she'd be alone like she so often was. She was nothing more than a safety net to him. The light in the storm. But what happened when the light gets tired of shining? What does the storm do then? Just blow her down. Obliterate her like everything else in its path.

Rachel ducked into the driver's seat and stuck the key in the ignition. She had no idea that the storm had turned into an absolute hurricane and was sitting right behind her, more than ready and willing to obliterate her.

She felt his red lips at her ear before she heard the words and she shuddered. It was so cold. _He _was so cold. And when he spoke, she found she could think of nothing else.

Bruce had spoken of a man in war paint, of the theatrics, and of the cold, calculated violence. Someone so much like Bruce and nothing at all like Bruce. Rachel couldn't believe how thick she had been. Of course she already knew who he was. This was the insane clown who had been showing up in surveillance cameras all across the city. The same man Bruce had been hunting.

"The Joker." She whispered as she caught a glimpse of his smile in her rearview mirror.

He was sitting in her backseat like he belonged there. He was wearing caked white makeup smeared over his features - to define them or to hide them, she wasn't sure. Maybe he wasn't doing either. Maybe this was as natural to him as anything. He had his knife again. It flitted in and out of the pockets of that same tattered corduroy suit he had worn on the train. She heard him tap his foot against the back of her seat restlessly. And then he spoke and it was just as she remembered it. "Don't you watch, uh, horror movies, little girl? You always, _always _check your back seat before you get in."

Rachel's capacity for reason came screaming back to her and she lunged for her car door, but he had already predicted she would do this. She was always trying to escape. For one who hated the feeling of being alone so much, she certainly tried to achieve it rather often. She was a glutton for punishment, perhaps. Well, they had played this game before, and both of them already knew how it went. She ran and he caught her. So he merely rolled his eyes and reached forward to grab her wrist. It was a familiar gesture and she made a half hearted attempt to twist free before settling with a sigh against the seat.

"What now?" she asked with a raised eyebrow into the rearview mirror.

"You drive me home, hon." The knife danced into her vision again and she found that this time it hardly bothered her. The threats weren't empty, they just weren't directed at her. Why this was so, she had no idea. Why she turned the key in the ignition, why she steered them out of the parking lot, and why she just knew that "home" meant her apartment, she also had no idea.

They drove in silence for awhile and every so often, she'd chance a look back at him. His head was leaning back against the seat so she could see the clear line of his neck. She could plainly make out where his makeup ended and he began. Just like before in her apartment, she had the sudden urge to touch him, to run her fingers lightly in the hollow of his neck in that spot where the two disparate halves met.

She thought his eyes might have been closed but she could never be sure. Especially with that carelessly applied makeup. The black paint enhancing the shadows in his eyes she already knew to be there. Those dark eyes flicked open then and she knew he had caught her staring. She looked away as quickly as she could and swallowed the sudden and all-encompassing fear that had no place in that car. Not after all she'd already been through.

"See something you like, bunt cakes?"

"Please." She tried to keep her voice as steady as possible. She wanted to sound arrogant and distant so as not to give him any hint as to who she really was. But he saw right through her and into that irrational fear. It was a fear that hadn't even been there when she found him lurking in the darkness of her backseat. Strange. She cleared her throat and craned her neck to look back at him. "So what's with the Happy Meal look, Ronald."

He chuckled and closed his eyes again. "If you hadn't already noticed, I've got some issues."

Rachel smiled and they were quiet for a few minutes more before she couldn't help herself any longer. Her voice cut through the silence like one of his trusty knives. Just as sharp. Just as deadly. "I know who you are, you know."

He was quiet for awhile and for a moment she thought he might be asleep. But then he spoke and when he did, his voice held no hint of the sing song-y lilt he had always used before. "Of course you do." He sounded almost sad and Rachel shifted in her seat uncomfortably. But then he was laughing - small, hiccupping , choked sounds. "Just let me off here, lemon drop. I almost forgot something."

Rachel looked around. There was nothing here but a tiny service station and a dive of a mom and pop diner. She couldn't imagine what he forgot here, unless he was suddenly hungry for some coffee and pie. But she pulled to the side of the road and flashed her four ways. The pulsing light reflected off his face, throwing it into light and dark alternately.

"Till next time, Sunshine." And then he had disappeared back into the darkness like he was made of it.

When Rachel read the paper the next morning, the headline shouldn't have surprised her. But it did. And she clutched at the kitchen sink as she violently threw up her bagel and coffee.

"_Local business owner Paul Johnston, 67, and wife Valerie Johnston, 63, found dead in diner"_

...

_Shuck. Shuck. Shuck. _

Rachel recognized what the sound was as soon as she heard it. As a little girl she would watch with wide, curious eyes, the tip of her nose barely clearing the kitchen table, as her father would toss his pocketknife carelessly into the pock-marked wood. Rachel's mother would scowl down at him disapprovingly before turning her attention on Rachel. Then she would say something Rachel couldn't fully understand until later.

"Men can't seem to keep anything nice. Especially not in the home. They can't talk out their anger so they take it out on innocent pieces of furniture. But we still love 'em. Still do." And then she'd walk away, clicking her tongue and unconsciously touching the bruise on her cheek before making her knife tossing husband another sandwich.

_Shuck. Shuck. Shuck. _

Rachel stood up off of her couch, clicking off the television. She hadn't really been watching anything. The TV was just a tool for her to use. It was background noise to block out the near overwhelming sound of silence. She crept into her darkened bedroom and quickly flicked on the overhead light. The steady sound of her father's knife tossing grew louder and she pushed aside the curtain to peer out her open window.

Smiles. The Joker. Whatever she should call him. He was out on her fire escape. His back against the brick wall of her buuilding, his feet propped up in front of him, resting on the lattice work of her small vine-climbing trellis. He was throwing his knife against the wood. Never once missing his mark. Never nicking the fragile leaves of the living plant.

He didn't even glance at her. For a moment, she thought that maybe he hadn't noticed her presence. Then he spoke to her and she mentally warned herself to quit letting her guard down around him.

"It's about time you showed up, moonshine. I've been waiting out here for hours." He stretched out the last word like it was four syllables. Like the word itself lasted for hours. He said it again to emphasize just how long he'd been waiting. "Hoooouuuurs." He looked at her through heavily lidded eyes and blinked at her once. He was wearing the make up again and she was instantly reminded of the Russian man on the train, of the blood-stained Joker card inside a plastic bag Gordon had showed her the other day to satisfy her persistent questions, and of the dead elderly couple screaming out at her from the font page of the newspaper the week before.

So she did the only reasonable thing she could think of to do - she ducked back into her bedroom and shut the window behind her. She grabbed for her cell phone that was usually on her nightstand, but it was already gone. She rushed back into her living room for her cordless phone, but when she put it to her ear, all she could hear was silence. Again. He was smart, she'd give him that. Rachel was more angry with him than frightened and she didn't even bother to turn on her bedroom light again. She supposed she forgot to be alone with him there.

She headed straight for her window and flung it open. "What the hell-" But before she could finish, he was grabbing her wrist and dragging her out into the moonlight. She landed with a grunt into his chest. He was actually shaking with laughter again. The light out here, she couldn't help but notice, made his already white face shine bright and luminous.

He didn't let her go, even as she struggled to put some distance between them. He held onto her, unfailingly, and rested his chin on the top of her head, leaning down and breathing in deeply. "Oh you. You never learn, do you?"

Rachel finally wrested one of her hands free and punched him as hard as she could in his smirking mouth. She looked up at him, a proud smile glowing on her face. But he merely cracked his neck to one side with a lazy smile.

"Now what was that for, Rocky?" His calm demeanor belied his quick reaction as his hand snapped up to close around hers and wrenched it painfully behind her back, between her shoulder blades. That same hand pressed her against him roughly as he spat in her face. "Try that again? I might just forget to be nice."

She wanted to make some snarky comment that if he thought he had been nice up to this point, then he definitely needed a lesson in the meaning of the word. But she saw the hardened look in his eyes, felt the quickening of his surprisingly warm pulse at his wrist, and thought better of it.

They stood glaring at each other before Rachel finally said through gritted teeth, "Why are you here? What could you possibly want from me now?"

He continued glaring at her, "They say there's a man in the moon. But I think it's a woman. She makes devils of us all, doesn't she?" Then his eyes shifted lower, to her mouth and she thought for one crazy instant that he would kiss her. But he shoved her roughly and she landed hard on her ass. She chewed at the inside of her cheeks to keep from crying out. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable!"

"I hate you."

He stared at her before bursting out laughing. "Do I really look like someone who cares what other people think?" He gestured to himself, to his clothes, his twisted face. "I mean, do you _see _this?"

Rachel nodded, that infuriatingly arrogant look in her eyes. Like she knew. "I do see you. The first time we met, I watched you kill a man. The second time, you left to kill two more people. Who's to say that this time you won't kill me? You revel in it. In the murder and the mayhem. And you can't help but smile about it because if you're not smiling, you're just scared and alone and helpless. The makeup? Just your way of hiding. Your sudden interest in some lawyer who lives alone with her cat? Well, that one you're going to have to explain to me."

He flopped down beside her and folded his hands casually in his lap. And then he looked at her as if she was a rare disease and he was the scientist assigned to find the cure. "Well. You certainly have it all figured out, don't you? That's sweet. It's - well - it's almost as if you care! Too bad, though. You're all wrong." He reached over and tugged on a lock of her hair hard enough that she thought he'd rip it right out of her head. She winced but said nothing. And he continued talking as if nothing happened. "I wear the makeup because I've always loved Halloween. My favorite day of days! And so I thought, uh, I thought why not just do it all year, right? I smile because I'm just a naturally happy person. I kill people because -" Here he paused and put one finger to the side of his head as if he was deep in thought, "Because it's just a whole shit load of a lot of fun! What do they say? Uh - forbidden fruit. Always the sweetest. Clown makeup in August? Smiling like you mean it in a town full of pessimists? Knifing random people to death in the middle of the street? All, uh, all that's pretty much forbidden. And hoo boy, is it ever sweet!"

"And as for you, peaches." He pointed one paint-smeared finger at her and winked. "What can I say? I like the, uh, cut of your jib." He saw the look on her face and sighed elaborately. "You've really gotta learn to take a joke. No one likes a girl who always looks like she just swallowed an entire lemon."

He reached a hand up to touch the scowl on her lips, but she knocked his hand away. She was furious now and she wasn't quite sure why. And if there was anything Rachel liked to know, it was why. "Why here? Why me? What makes you think I won't just turn you in?"

He bit his lip and looked down at the hand she had just struck as if she had just punched him in the face again. "I don't know why I let you hit me all the time!" He said this in his high, whining, nasal voice. He was taunting her again.

"Shut the fuck up." she muttered and looked away, not able to look him in the face. His words had hit a little too close to home that time.

"Shh, now, I'm gonna tell ya, I promise! No more jokes." He tried to look seriously at her but the fucking laughter came out again as always. Frustrated, he grabbed her roughly by the chin and forced her to look at him, his other hand reached down and grabbed hold of hers in a crushing grip. She held her fingers clenched in a fist, but he pried them apart one by one, ticking off the reasons as if he was playing that 'this little piggy went to market' game. "One. You make me laugh. You with your infuriatingly unfailing goodness." He said the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "You'd risk your life to save some stranger on a train? And what do you get in return? Me!" He was laughing again and rubbed the tears from his eyes but stopped when he noticed she hadn't quite got the joke. "It's - it's irony! C'mon! It's funny!" He nudged her with his shoulder, nearly toppling her over, willing her to get the joke. He wanted her so much to laugh right along with him. When she didn't, he felt almost like - not laughing anymore. Odd.

He cleared his throat and lifted another of her fingers. "Two. You have a nice rack. Who wouldn't want to look at that all the time? I mean really?" He was looking unabashedly at her breasts now, and she wanted to gouge his eyes out.

"Three." Her third finger was pried loose. "I haven't quite figured out the, uh, best way to kill you yet. Yet. I will though. I always find a way. I'm, ah, I'm creative like that." He giggled again at her ever so slightly widened eyes. "Four. You always run. I don't know - this one's more about me. I can't turn away from a good chase! Yeah. That and your cat. Your fat ass cat makes me hungry for Chinese food."

"And Five." He turned her hand toward him and studied her palm as if he was reading her future. "Five." He smacked his lips and looked her full in the face. "You make for a great safe-house, darling."

She tried pulling her hand away but he held it fast. "What the hell are you talking about?"

In answer, he took her open hand and placed it on his chest, over the place where his heart should have been. If he even had one. She felt the fabric of his shirt. It was worn and unexpectedly soft under her fingers. She stared up at him seriously, expecting an explanation.

"In my, uh, my line of work, I sometimes encounter some disagreements. Sometimes my, uh, co-workers come looking for me to, you know, sort things out. I can't send Gotham City spiraling into self destruction if I'm stuffed into a body bag, now can I? So I come here. Who'd expect one of Gotham City's most wanted chatting on the fire escape of the Assistant District Attorney?"

He was making sense. Again. Rachel hated when that happened. It felt wrong, like everything else when he was around. Wrong. And somehow true.

Rachel was so caught up in her own thoughts that she didn't even notice him dragging her hand lower down from his chest as he spoke again. "And, uh, the reason I, ah, chose you?" Rachel's pulse quickened and she couldn't quite catch her breath as he trailed her fingers down and down his flat stomach. She could feel the rising and falling of his breath, measured and slow. Almost too careful. Almost as if he was consciously trying to control it.

"I'm not one who makes friends easily and you - well - like you said before - " He got an evil glint in his eyes, his smile spread wide across his face as he noted her expression. Heavy lidded excitement. Gooood. Her lips parted unconsciously and one of her breaths came out, to her horror, as a tiny moan. So tiny that he would've missed it had he not been actively listening for it. Her fingers brushed against his belt buckle and her thoughts clouded, not really even caring where he was going with his anymore. All of her attention was focused on the worn leather of that belt. She wondered, absently, if he would undo it or if he would expect her to --

He chuckled then and she could hardly register that he was still speaking. "Like you said before - you already _know who I am_!" He enunciated the last words with added weight and meaning, throwing her own words right back into her face as he wrapped her waiting fingers around the smooth handle of his knife he had sheathed in his belt.

He gazed at her innocently, his eyes gleaming with ill-concealed mirth.

Rachel wrenched her hand free at last, cursing herself for letting herself get drawn in yet again. "You fucking bastard!" She shouted as she stood and darted back through the window and into her bedroom.

He scrambled to his feet and turned towards her, smiling at her through the open window. "What? Disappointed? Is that why she's always so grumpy, hm? Feeling a little but lonely? Lolita not getting any beast with two backs action on? Huh?" She glared and slammed the window in his face. She shut the curtains, hoping to shut him out as well as she heard his muffled voice through the glass saying something about Humbert not being able to help her with that particular problem through a closed window.

She hated him. hated that he was right outside probably plotting his next rash of murders. She hated that she could do nothing about it. But most of all, she hated that that night she slept better knowing that he was right outside. The loneliness was gone and her heart burned with the realization.

When she woke the next morning, she opened the curtains, already knowing that he'd be gone. And she was right. Her fire escape was empty save for the trellis and the leaves of the vine swaying gently in the breeze. It was then that she noticed the odd markings on the criss-crossed wood. She looked around warily before pulling her robe closer around her and stepping out onto the fire escape again for a better look.

He had carved something in the wood. There were crude smiley faces surrounding the lettering.

_"friend. i know you too."_

_..._

_"This will all be over and one day we can be together."_

Rachel had found him this time, laying in her bed, one arm resting casually behind his head and his ankles crossed in front of him. He wasn't, she noted, wearing any shoes and there was a tiny hole in one of his outlandish socks where his toe was free to poke through. In one hand, he gripped a cocktail napkin with Bruce's scrawled writing on the surface.

"Get out. Now. I had a long day at work and I just want to crawl into bed and go to sleep."

He ignored her, balling up the napkin and tossing it at her. "That little momento wouldn't be signed by Gotham City's own billionaire playboy, Bruce _Wayne_, now would it?"

"That's none of your business." She cringed as she saw that he had already gotten his makeup all over her sheets. She wondered if maybe she should ask him what sort of detergent he uses but, by the state of him, she had the distinct feeling that the answer she'd get would be none.

"Ah. I'll take that as a yes." He looked at the crumpled napkin on the floor like it was something utterly disgusting. "A napkin? Really? Woulda thought someone like Brucey would engrave his little love letters on golden sheets of hundred dollar bills." He looked up at her again and shifted on her bed, his arms crossed in front of him, raising his eyebrows in a smug expression. "So. Just out of morbid curiosity. Have you always been attracted to the train wrecks or do they just find you? Were you always the last hope?"

She smirked at him, not in any mood to play his little game tonight. "And who are you hiding from this time, Smiles?"

His eyes flashed at her, seething rage just brewing beneath the surface of that beautiful sickly green. "I don't hide."

She shrugged dismissively, perhaps the worst possible thing she could've done in that moment. "Sure you don't. And I'm not the safe house." She was instantly made aware of the knife laying on the bed like some pet beside him. She could see the muscles in his jaw working, clenching and unclenching. She could see the straining of his neck as one finger gently stroked the blade. "Seriously. Leave. You can sleep on the couch if you really need to, but - "

In a flash, he was standing - looming - in front of her, his knife strategically placed between them. "Now, dumpling, what did I tell you? Stop drinking that fucking lemon juice." This, he screamed in her face as he shook her so violently by the shoulders that she could've sworn her head was going to pop right off her neck. Maybe that's what he wanted, her head on a stake.

But when she found her voice again, her words betrayed her. "If you wanted to kill me. Really wanted to kill me, you'd have done it already."

"That's where you're wrong, precious. I do want to kill you. I really do. I just haven't figured out how yet." He shrugged, the knife still trained on her. "I'm a perfectionist."

Rachel kept her focus on anything but the knife and decided staring directly into the hollows of his eyes would do just fine instead. "I think you're wrong. You have been ever since we met. And that's the reason why you can't kill me. Because you're afraid that killing me would be killing your last chance at some semblance of normal. Believe me, Smiles, I've been down this road before."

"You think I want to be normal?" He crept towards her his eyes gleaming with something she couldn't recognize. Something she'd never seen from him before. "Not very perceptive, are you? No wonder you can't seem to keep any men hanging around - Billionaire or, uh, heh, otherwise."

He gave her a knowing wink and she wondered, for one horrible moment if he knew about Bruce. He already knew so much about her, why not about those around her as well? "No, I don't think you want to be normal. I think you want to fake it every once and awhile. You know? Kind of like a vacation?"

He laughed. He was so close now she could feel the vibrations of it against her skin. She reached out her left hand and put it on his chest where he had placed it just a few short days before. She looked up at him. That odd gleam was still in his eyes. "There's something still in there. I can feel it." His breathing got heavier and his eyes closed briefly. He was humming some unrecognizable melody. She found herself playing with the buttons of his shirt and gently stroking the faded, checkered material. "What makes you keep coming back here?" She whispered the words to him - maybe because he was already so close - or maybe because she was afraid of saying them - afraid of his answer.

He leaned toward her then, touching the tip of his nose against hers. His eyes opened and they were still gleaming with some unknown excitement. "Maybe it's not the safe house. Maybe it _is_ you. Would you like that?" He raised his eyebrows at her, wrinkling the white makeup clinging to his forehead. Rachel didn't answer but looked away. So he continued in a soft voice that seemed so sincere. "Maybe I'm a clown in need of rescuing? maybe I think you can do it." One of his arms snaked around her waist and pulled her to him and she thought, for the second time since she had been drawn into this man's skewed universe, that he would kiss her. And the truly terrifying thing was that she knew she would let him.

His grip around her tightened and his other hand stroked lazily down her arm, closing around the hand that hovered over his heart. He brought it high above her hand, making tiny circles on her palm with his thumb. Drawing a target. "Or maybe..." he grinned and the gleam was even brighter "I just like, uh, having you hanging around!" His other hand - it still held the knife. She had forgotten.

Rachel felt a sharp pain that brought tears to her eyes and a high pitched scream from her lips. He had stabbed her hand above her head, right through her palm and into the wall behind her. He had her, literally, pinned to the wall.

"Don't ever make me out to be your wounded Rochester, Jane. I thought you had learned by now." With that, he patted her tear-stained cheek, roughly pulled out his knife, and left her collapsing in a heap to the floor.

She was crying and cradling her bleeding hand but she could still see him through bleary eyes as he climbed out her window and into the night. He was cackling, now, so hard he was finding it almost difficult to even breathe. But then he spoke and she could do nothing but cry and listen.

"This will never be over. And one day, you'll die alone." He was looking at her seriously, sadly. But then he burst out laughing again. "Good, huh? Want me to write it on a napkin for ya?" And with one final, wheezing laugh, he was gone.

...

A/N: So I was debating whether or not to split this monster into three different chapters. But I couldn't bear to cut it into pieces. So here you have it, in its long-winded entirety. I really hope it was worth the extra wait. :-)

I also just wanted to take the opportunity to thank everyone for reading and reviewing. It makes my heart do a little jig everytime I read one. And if you're not reviewing, that's cool too. Just know that my heart isn't jigging as much. Which might be a good thing...I'm not sure. Jigging hearts could mean cardiovascular problems, for all I know.

Aaaanyway. I also kind of wanted to go over why I use the nicknames and the cursing. There is a reason for this. Really. :-) The Joker doesn't seem to like using people's real names too much. Not just in my story, but quite a bit in the movie as well. Case in point: "Well hello, Beautiful." "Where's the Italian?" "Evening, Commissioner." "You're just a freak like me." He even conveniently "forgets" Rachel's name when he's talking to Two Face!Harvey. He tends to gravitate towards calling people by their labels and not by their actual names. By dehumanizing everyone around him in this way, he effectively distances himself from them as well. It makes it easier for him to kill them later, I think. Also, I think it's a crapload of a lot of fun to come up with some of the things Joker calls Rachel in my story. But that's the selfish writer in me. :-D

And the cursing? If it weren't for the PG-13 rating, I think Heath Ledger would've been letting a lot more choice words fly. I tend to think The Joker is a bit, shall we say, rough around the edges? He's totally going to curse in my story. And he's going to curse a lot. And in my own personal experience, sometimes "fuck" is just the best word to use in certain situations. ;-) This is certainly not to say other interpretations of the character are wrong. That's just what is so great about this character. He's like a bag of potato chips. You can't stop at just one interpretation. Also, he's crunchy and delicious and kinda bad for you. ;-)

And if you've read this far and aren't completely and utterly bored out of your gourd, I'm impressed. Thanks for indulging my ranting. Here, have a crunchy and delicious JokerChip.


	4. Chapter 4

_"I have the perfect weapon right here. These...two...hands." Bruno Anthony, Strangers on a Train _

_..._

Rachel was hiding under her bed when everything went suddenly and horribly dark. She hugged Miss Kitty closer to her, breathing into the stuffed cat's soft fur and squeezing her eyes shut - trading the unknown darkness for her own controlled, self-imposed darkness. Now all she could do was listen as her entire world fell apart around her.

"You bitch. You goddamned bitch! Marrying you was the worst fucking mistake I ever made!" Rachel flinched as she heard something heavy hit the floor below with a crash.

"Then leave! Just leave and go find one of your whores. It's what you're best at!"

Rachel's parents' voices rang in her ears. She knew if she went downstairs, they'd stop. If only she could find the courage to climb out from under the bed, she would somehow be able to fix it all. But the fear and the darkness were suffocating her. And she stayed. Inert. Safe. Unchanging. She heard the door slam. The floor beneath her shook with the force of it.

And that's when she decided to make her way downstairs. After the storm. When everything was back to normal. When everything was safe. The first thing she saw as she peered through the metal slats of the banister was her mother's face, pale and drawn, an angry bruise circling one eye and illuminated by the flickering candle she held.

"The lights are out." She stared dumbly at Rachel almost as if she was expecting her to say something or to somehow take control of the situation. But then she dissolved into sobs and fell to the floor, the candle toppling in her hand and flickering out. Her mother's words were weak and muffled in the darkness and Rachel was so afraid she wanted to vomit.

"He's gone. Rachel. He's gone."

...

Rachel set her keys on the table beside her apartment door and tried flicking on the entryway light. But the comforting yellow glow did not greet her as it always did.

"Shit." She slammed the door a little harder than necessary behind her, making sure the latch was securely in place before rummaging through the drawer for a flashlight. All she found were a half full book of matches.

"Shiiiiit." She tried striking one of the matches and winced as the motion pulled at her bandaged wound. The match flared to life, illuminating the gauze wrapped around her left palm. She had told the doctors that one of her kitchen knives had fallen on it. Right.

Rachel somehow knew that even if she had told them the truth, they wouldn't have believed her. She didn't even believe herself anymore. Skydiving, writing the next great American novel, getting married and having 2.5 children, sure. But playing house with a dangerous psychopath was not exactly on her list of things to do before she died.

She was starting to see him on the news, now. His face always stretched in a grin as he filmed himself and his victims. He would always make them plead for mercy before he relieved them of their weak, whining voices. He toyed with them as he always toyed with her. The tapes on the news always cut off before the final moments, but Rachel already knew exactly what would happen. The ease with which he dealt death. She had witnessed it firsthand.

Rachel made her way into her kitchen and tried that light. Nothing. She was beginning to panic. Usually whenever the power would go out in her building, the reserve power would kick in after a few minutes, and her panic at the pressing darkness and isolation would be only fleeting. It would only be a quick, passing fear like catching a roach skuttling across the kitchen floor. But that wasn't happening. This was a lasting darkness. She couldn't breath. Where had everyone gone? There was no one to help her. She was alone and she was blind.

She made her way further into her kitchen, her hands stretched in front of her, reaching. She knew she had left a flashlight on top of the refrigerator and her matches were quickly running out. That's when her left arm connected with something solid, soft, and warm. Something alive. She shrieked and dropped her entire book of matches. The lit matches set off the others in a flash of bright light. She saw his painted face looking at her with a vaguely shocked expression.

"Shhhut up! If there are more of them, we're both dead." His hand clamped hard over her mouth. She was sure she'd have bruises on her cheeks the next morning. He slammed her against the stainless steel of her refrigerator door, but she couldn't yet see the murder in his eyes. She could only feel it as he pinned her with the weight of his own body. "You're home early, lemon juice." She couldn't breath, couldn't move. He was surrounding her, pressing into her, making her helpless. It was as if he was made of the same darkness that had paralyzed her so often before.

"Please - please. Just - get off me. Let me alone." She was so choked with fear that she couldn't even find the energy to hate how weak she sounded.

His voice was all confusion and delight. "What? Are you - You're shaking!" He laughed and she felt his breath in her face. "You're not - I mean, you can't be afraid of the dark, can you?" She struggled to get away from him but he held her still, one knee pressing into her stomach, his hands clenching around her face. "You mean all this time I've been trying to scare you with the threat of a good old fashioned slash to the jugular and all I woulda had to do was take away your widdle nightlight?"

"Please." She was crying now. He could feel the tears pooling in his hand where he held her cheeks. It was wonderful. "Don't do this. I need - I need - " She was all out sobbing now. She couldn't even come up with her usual biting retorts.

He scoffed and roughly shoved himself away from her. "You're not as much fun when all you're doing is blubbering. I think you got snot on my best jacket."

She reached her hand out, groping and frantically searching for that contact again. She didn't want to need him, but she did. He was the only one close enough to reach. He chuckled as her hand found purchase on the lapel of his now mucus covered jacket, bringing him back to her.

"I need light. I can't be alone. Please - don't - "

He was still for a moment. All she could hear was his breathing, steady and slow. But then he reached down and picked up one of the sputtering matches on the floor, lighting some candle she hadn't even realized she had. He held the candle in front of her face, so close that it burned. "Better?"

She could clearly make out his features now and the weight on her chest was slightly lifted. She paid no attention to the thick paint covering his face or that the other hand that wasn't holding the light was clutching onto her arm so painfully she felt his fingers digging into bone.

She felt ridiculous, suddenly, holding onto him, sobbing, and begging him to stay when just a few days before all she wanted him to do was leave. But she couldn't help herself anymore. She had been helping herself for so long, she longed for someone else to take a stab at it. And if anyone was good at taking a stab at something, it was him.

She looked up at him, the tears still wet on her cheeks, her expression open and a bit sheepish. And he was looking down at her, a bit miffed and utterly amused. He had found yet another of her weaknesses and she knew he wouldn't waste the opportunity to exploit it. The thought should have scared her and yet it only intrigued her. What would he do next? Would she even find a way to exploit his own fears that she knew were there and had known were there ever since he first smiled at her? His constant desire to keep himself hidden only choosing to put himself in the public eye when it suited him, was very telling. It told Rachel that they were more alike than not. That they were both afraid to ever let their guard down. Afraid that if they did, they'd be as vulnerable and alone on the outside as they already felt on the inside.

Rachel hated him. Hated him for already seeing that side of her. Hated him for seeing the same in him.

And that's when Rachel saw it out of the corner of her eye, glinting in the dim candlelight. His eyes followed hers and he let out one, sharp, barking laugh when he saw what she was staring at.

Blood. Shining bright and fiery red against the clean white tile of her kitchen floor.

"I gotta say, I'm surprised at you, Rach. Always thought you kept a nice house. That, uh, _Better Homes and Gardens _magazine on your coffee table just for show?" He laughed again but was cut short when Rachel grabbed at his shirt, pulling the collar tight against his neck, choking the laughter right out of him. She pulled herself up to her full height, trying hard to cut herself an intimidating figure when she had proven herself so weak just minutes before. But he wasn't laughing at her anymore. And she wouldn't soon forget this small victory.

Rachel brought her face close to his. "What happened?"

"You, uh, know me? You should know the answer to that already." He shifted and craned his neck, forcing her to loosen her hold on him.

"I was wrong. I don't know you. I don't even know myself anymore. You make me - " She trailed off, not wanting him to know the rest of that sentence. He already knew too much.

He stared down at her, his eyes slightly curious - a hint of doubt passed quickly over his face before his customary smile forced itself across his features once more. "I already told you. In my line of work, sometimes I run into some - uh - conflicts that need resolving. That - " He nodded toward the sickening pool of blood on her floor. "That was a resolution."

"That was murder." She whispered and glared up at him.

He shrugged. "Dog eats dog. They found me. I took care of it before they found - " He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. "Your safe house isn't so safe anymore. Guess this is goodbye, huh, sweet cheeks?" He patted her face roughly - a slap more than a pat - and attempted to pry her fingers from his shirt. But her grip on him only tightened. Her voice and her entire body shook with rage.

"You force your way into my life, you play your little mind games with me, you send me to the fucking emergency room, you kill someone in cold blood in my own home, and you expect me to just - _let you walk out of here?_"

He sent one finger gently stroking down the same cheek he had just slapped. "Aw. I'll miss you too, friend."

"Shut up. I'm done with your games and - and the way you dance around the truth of it all. There's more to this safe house bullshit, and you know it. Why did you bother to stick around if you already knew that they had found you? Why did you stay? And why in the _hell _do you keep coming back here?"

His eyes snapped up at her. That hateful gleam was back and he practically growled at her. "Because you keep letting me in!"

He grabbed hold of her by her shoulders and shoved her against the refrigerator door again, breathing hot and fast into her face and dropping the candle on the floor. The safety of the light finally sputtered out and they were both once again plunged into darkness.

Rachel choked back a scream. All she could do was feel him as he moved against her, his hands moving from her shoulders to grip on her waist and finally holding onto her hips, pulling them against his own.

"It would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just to let go? Have you even asked yourself why you keep letting me stay? Why you haven't called your cop buddies down at County to swoop in and save you?" His fingers were slipping low on her stomach, pulling her shirt out from the waistband of her skirt, playing with the sewn edges.

"Because secretly, you love it. You want the excitement - the danger that I give you. You want to come back to your safe little fluffy home and see me sitting on your frilly little satin bed with all the pillows and matching fucking duvet covers and watch as I, uh, play with my knives. You want to forget the pointlessness of your existence - forget that there's no way you're ever going to save this fucked up world, no matter how hard you try. No matter how many Bruce Waynes you fuck in high places, no matter who you pretend to want to save. You'll always be little girl Rachel, scared of the dark and afraid to be alone, watching from the stairs as Daddy slaps Mommy across the face hard enough to bring her to her knees."

Rachel moved to slap him but he caught her wrist easily, bringing it up to his face. She couldn't see his grin, but she felt it with her fingers.

"Want to watch as I bring you to your knees? Hm? I'll make you forget. Forget that you don't matter. Make you forget it all. It's magic, really. Just a little...slight of hand." His hand pulled at her skirt, slipping it up past her thighs and over her hips. His fingers worked their way between them and she gasped and gripped her hand even harder onto his shirt. She grasped at him as his knowing fingers worked against her. One of her hands held onto his wrist that was between them, meaning to pull his hand away but only holding him there. Wanting him to stop. Needing him not to.

He brought her over the edge in no time, and he smiled triumphant as she bucked against his hand, her good, innocent little mouth making corrupted, wicked little noises. He was just about to laugh when she spoke. Her voice was breathless and still so sickeningly _good_.

"I'm not - I must matter. To you at least. Your safe house, right?"

He didn't answer, for once unable to come up with something to say. She leaned into him, gasping her release, wanting nothing more than to kick him, punch him, shove him to the floor and spit in his face for finally knowing all of her weaknesses. For finally knowing all of her. But instead, she leaned on him heavily for support. He was right. She wanted this. To forget. She was so tired of the good fight. So tired of fighting at all.

She couldn't see him in the dark, so her hand came up to touch his face to gauge his expression. Her fingers stroked gently along his mouth like she had been wanting to do for so long. "I wonder - if you love the danger so much - why you want to be safe. Here. With me."

One of her hands trailed down his neck, down to his chest, his stomach, and rested on the button of his trousers hesitantly. She worked the button loose and felt rather than heard his rasping breaths, surprisingly warm against her face. "I want you to pretend for a minute that this isn't a magic trick. No slight of hand. I want you to pretend that this isn't a game or some experiment to corrupt me. I want you to pretend that maybe this is real. That you and me - we have something that's just a little bit real." Her hand found its way inside his trousers and she felt him hard and filling her stroking hand. But he grabbed her wrist and twisted it around. She cried out as she felt it bend backwards, the pain shooting up her arm. The sick bastard had broken her wrist. She was crying, the pain, the rage, all bubbling over just like he had wanted from her.

"That's my girl. Hate me. Hate the world for fucking with you." He laughed in her face again, pure joy simply radiating from him. "You're always looking at me like you want to take out your Elmer's glue and paste everything back together. There's no fixing this, Rachel. Believe me, I tried." He grabbed her broken wrist and forced it up to his face again, making her aching fingers trail once more against the torn, hardened tissue of the scars. "Where did you think I got these? Hm?"

He was cackling again and she brought her good hand up and clawed at his face She felt the blood and paint pooling under her fingernails. But this only made him laugh harder. He slapped her hard across her face and she saw stars. One of his hands held onto her neck and squeezed. She could almost feel the bruises form there as his fingers pressed harder and harder into her flesh. On the verge of panic now, she sent her elbow up and heard it connect with his face in a satisfying crunch. He cursed and she felt his grip on her neck loosen. She took in great, gulping gasps of air thankfully. She couldn't see but she hoped his nose had at least been broken.

He laughed, coughed, and spat blood. "You wanna play it like that?" She could tell she had hurt him that time. His voice was lower, slurred, and pained. And she reveled in it. The power it gave her to know that she could hurt him just as much as he had hurt her was intoxicating. But then the thought came to her, that with that simple action she understood him just a little bit more.

But still she was laughing. Laughing at his pain. The sound of her own laughter was foreign to her ears but he recognized it right away. He grinned and pulled her even tighter against him. And then his lips came crashing down on hers, stealing away her laughter. She tried to pull away but he held her fast, slanting his mouth over hers, tugging at her lips with his teeth and making low sounds deep in his throat. He brought both of his hands up to her face, clamping around her, affording her absolutely no escape no matter how hard she squirmed against him.

He pulled himself away and she let out the breath she hadn't even known she'd been holding.

"Don't think I didn't warn you. Didn't try. This should've been over on the train. Should've just killed you then. But it wasn't right." He was talking more to himself than to her. "It's all so wrong."

She nodded in agreement but still coiled herself around him. She stood on her toes unsteadily, one leg coming up around his hip, her hands tangling in his hair, desperately bringing him down to meet her. He brought her other leg up and around him, holding her against the refrigerator door. She gasped as he slowly rolled his hips against hers. They were so close - so close to reaching that final plane of understanding - so close to that final connection. She whimpered, hating the sound as she ran her hands down his back, pressing into him, wanting him to finish this thing he had started.

The steady movement of his hips against hers was not nearly enough and she let out a frustrated groan as she reached down between them, seeking him out. But he stopped her and continued his torturous movements against her.

"Say it. What do you want?"

She groaned and bit her lip, knowing all along she was going to lose. Knowing she would beg, but wanting so much not to.

"I want - " Her voice was strained, not her own. He laughed.

"Sorry? Didn't quite catch that."

The Bastard and his games. Rachel couldn't stand it anymore. And that's when she decided it would be a good time to knee him in the groin. He grunted in pain but still let out a coughing laugh.

She snarled at him, wanting so much to hurt him without making him laugh. "What? You really think I'd want this? You? I'd have to be just as crazy as you are. Every day you're here, it makes me sick seeing you."

He stopped laughing, then, and she grinned in triumph. He was so close to her that, even in the pith black, she could clearly make out the insanity in his eyes that had always been there but that he had simply chosen to carefully hide away whenever convenient.

"You want crazy?" He growled at her and shoved her once more against the refrigerator, so hard this time she could hear the shelves rattling inside, her yogurt containers falling over, her milk tumbling off the shelf.

He fumbled with his pants and ripped her skirt up past her hips. He lifted her up so she was positioned above him and thrust into her hard, fast, merciless. She bit her uninjured hand to keep from crying out but the muffled whimper escaped her lips anyway. He was pushing into her so hard tears came to her eyes. She wanted so much to tell him to stop, to beat at his chest and kick at his legs until he finally fell away from her, but she gripped at his shoulders, taking him in as she had in every other way with him. Why did she keep letting him in? Even like this? And one word was echoing in her mind. The word that had been there since the beginning. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

_Friend. _

She hadn't even realized she had whispered the word until she felt him slow his assault on her. His hands that had been clutching painfully on her thighs trailed up her back now.

"Shut up. Just shut up. Don't make this into something. It can't - " His face was buried into her hair, the words muffled and nearly lost as he groaned his shuddered release.

He held her above him for a moment, calming his breathing and resting his cheek against hers. She could still feel the paint and the dried blood on his face, separating them. Rachel allowed herself to close her eyes and leaned heavily on him, letting him hold her up.

She let out a breath that she supposed could have easily been mistaken for a contented sigh and he jerked away from her quickly, letting her fall to the hard, blood stained tile. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his eyes on her. She could see his face in her mind, twisted into a hateful sneer as he straightened his clothes.

He chuckled, a mirthless, dry sound and spoke the words she instantly regretted hearing.

"Thanks, Friend."

And he was gone.

_..._

Rachel spent the rest of the night curled up on the floor, unable to see, unable to move and terrified of the surrounding emptiness, sickened at the emptiness in her that he had left behind.

The lights didn't come back on until the next morning. She cleaned up the blood on her floor and took a shower without even knowing what she was doing. She called in sick to work, faking an infection that she supposed wasn't so fake. She felt like she had been infected. He was everywhere now. In the dark shadows of her eyes, in the bruises on her neck, in the scratches on her thighs. Everywhere.

Thanks, Friend.

...

A/N: Ahem. Well. There you go. And no, it's still not over. These crazy kids, they've still got so much to talk about.

I want to thank you guys again for all your awesome reviews. They warm the cockles of my heart like The Joker's flaming pile of Mob cash warms the "Good with Cal-koo-lations" guy.

Things you can expect in the next chapter:

A Pigeon named Ronald

A Date

Opera

Another ride on the train o' love

Schiff, Thomas

Just kidding with that last one. Or...am I? Hmmm...


	5. Chapter 5

_I still think it would be wonderful to have a man love you so much he'd kill for you. _

_~ Barbara Morton, Strangers on a Train_

_..._

Rachel was beginning to think it had all been a dream. A horrible, drug-induced, hallucinogenic fever dream where she would wake up screaming and drenched in a cold sweat. But a dream nonetheless. She hadn't seen him for a month. She hadn't heard from him, in the news of otherwise, for longer. She hadn't thought about him either. Ever.

She had also taken to lying to herself on a regular basis. A nasty habit, but somehow necessary now.

And she had started taking the train again. A defiant gesture to convince herself that their encounters had been worth nothing. Once, a few weeks ago, she thought she might've caught a glimpse of him - his dark eyes gleaming from behind a newspaper. The headline screamed "Mysterious Vigilante Drug Bust." But it turned out to be nothing. Nothing at all.

She wasn't going to kid herself, she was relieved. She thought that now, maybe, she could pick up the pieces of her scattered life, throw herself back into her work, and forget that part of her was still with him. Part of her was still smiling.

"You look like you've just remembered the punch line to a really good joke."

Harvey Dent. Gotham City Golden boy. Campaigning for a brighter future. He was precisely why she had thrown herself into her work. His was the influence she needed.

Rachel shook her head. "It wasn't that funny."

Harvey sighed elaborately, giving her his best crooked smile. "Let me be the judge of that. You can tell me it over dinner." He winked at her and when he did that, Rachel found it hard to tell him no.

"I don't think that would be such a good idea." She turned back to the files she had been studying, her hair hiding her face as she leaned over.

He leaned down and pushed her hair aside with his fingers. "Don't make me beg, Dawes. It won't look good on the campaign ads. You know-" He made little air quotes with his fingers. "'Believe in Harvey Dent or he'll get down on his knees and beg you to.'"

Oh he was good. Rachel couldn't help but smirk and look up at him before quickly turning back to her work. "What time are you picking me up?"

He grinned down at her, but she didn't look up to see. She already knew. This was what she needed...

...

"I just don't see why she had to die!" Harvey moved to the curb and stood behind the crowd of theatergoers lined up waiting for a cab. He had his hand resting on the small of Rachel's back. It was a comforting gesture.

"She had to die." Rachel moved away from him unconsciously. She wasn't ready for comforting. Not yet. "It's a tragic love story. She died to prove that love transcends life and death. That love has no boundaries. She knew she was going to die. He knew she was going to die. They got scared and separated themselves from each other. But in the end they were brought back together and reaffirmed their love even when her death was inevitable. If she had survived, it would've been a copout."

Harvey laughed, keeping his eyes on her. He noticed that her hair gleamed almost golden beneath the lights of the marquis. "You certainly have strong opinions on the subject. Puccini would've been proud. Are you sure you're a lawyer and not a theater critic?"

Rachel looked down at the sidewalk. It was slick with the evidence of a recent rain. "Actually, I was never a fan of opera. When you suggested it, I didn't want you to think I was some uncultured hillbilly."

Harvey looked at her, all seriousness now. And Rachel suddenly felt the urge to laugh. It was unnerving. "Don't ever change who you are because of someone else, Rachel. How about you pick what we do next time."

Rachel smiled and said nothing. Leave it to him to bring up the possibility of another date. He obviously thought it had gone well. And it had. It had. Aside from the fact that this had been the longest conversation they had all night and that Rachel had the inexplicable urge to laugh at everything he _did _say. It was just that everything that came out of his mouth was just too perfect. She didn't deserve him and she knew it and it made her want to laugh.

Harvey turned from her to glower at the taxi line. "We're never going to get home this way. It's a nice night. Doesn't look like it'll rain anymore. You up to walking to the train station?"

Rachel felt something jump in the pit of her stomach. But she ignored it and nodded mechanically. "Sure."

He smiled another winning smile at her. God, even his teeth were perfectly even and white. "Great! It'll give us some extra time to talk."

But they walked in silence for awhile. Rachel held on to his arm as they turned into an alley that led down to the stairs of the platform. This was so different. He wasn't crushing her hand in a bruising grip. He wasn't tugging her along frantically or cackling at her. He was smiling kindly at her. He wanted to take care of her. He was so good for her.

"So did you like it? Did you have a good time?" Harvey finally broke the silence.

Rachel had the distinct feeling he wasn't really talking about the play anymore, but she found she couldn't answer the question he was asking. So she pretended it was about the play. She had since honed her skills in pretending. "It was OK. I understood it, I think. Better now than when I first saw it in college."

Harvey's face fell. It broke her heart to see him like that, but maybe it was for the best. She really didn't deserve him. Really didn't deserve the looks he gave her.

He stopped walking, then, poised above the stairwell and turned towards her. "What's different now than in college?"

Rachel shook her head. Not wanting to have this conversation yet. It was too soon for the big talks. "I don't know. Lost love resonates better when you've seen a bit more of the world, I guess."

Harvey grinned his crooked grin. She could tell he was trying to make light of a serious question. He was always trying to make her feel as comfortable as possible. "So has our very own Gotham City avenger Rachel Dawes ever found the time to be in love?"

Rachel looked away and cleared her throat, thinking about Bruce and trying not to think about the other. "Once. When I was young and didn't know any better."

"And how about now?" He was getting too close. She wanted to scream at him to back off already. She reached up to her face unconsciously - making certain her mouth wasn't stretched into an evil grin or something. Like his. But Harvey was still waiting for her answer, completely unaware of her inner struggle. Patiently waiting for her to come back to him. Always patient. Always careful. Always himself. He was an open book when all she wanted to do was to slam them shut.

"Now?" Rachel looked down at her hands. They were shaking slightly. "Not that I was aware of."

The train clattered to a halt below and Rachel tugged on his arm, leading him down the stairs. "C'mon, we're going to miss it."

Rachel heard the shuffling behind them, the metallic sound of scraping metal, and his breathing fast and harsh and recognized it all immediately. Before she even heard his high – pitched, lilting voice, she knew exactly who it was and why he was there.

"Hey Harvey. Harvey Dent! Believe in this!"

Rachel screamed as she heard the dull thud as Harvey hit the pavement beside her. She should have known. Should have predicted this. It was her fault. She never should have thought she could lead a normal life. Not with him always there, lurking in the shadows of her mind.

She knelt down beside Harvey, who was now crumpled on the filthy, hard concrete of the platform. His perfect face was marred with blood from the Joker's blow. She knew this would never – could never have lasted long. But Harvey was still breathing evenly. He seemed like he would be alright. He had been spared. This time.

She fumbled for her cell phone in her purse – cursing that she had brought one so large and filled with junk. She could never find her phone when she needed it most.

"I gotta say, sugar lips, I'm impressed! Bagging not one but two Gotham City big shots in one lifetime? That's gotta be some sort of, uh, record, right?"

Rachel glared up at him, cell phone finally in hand. His voice, she noted offhand, was different. Tired. But she told herself that she didn't care.

"What the hell are you doing?" She hissed. "Is this some twisted attempt at jealous boyfriend? Because, color me confused, I thought we had already gone our separate ways." Rachel had already dialed 911 – had already put her phone to her ear - and couldn't quite believe he hadn't yet wrenched it from her grasp and sent it hurling toward the train tracks. Wrong. Something was so wrong again.

The operator picked up on the first ring and Rachel was surprised how steady her voice sounded even as a madman with a knife loomed above her, having just sent her date sailing to the land of unconsciousness. Rachel told them their location and that there had been an accident, hanging up quickly to fully focus her attention on the problem at hand.

He was leaning to one side and staring at her through glassy eyes. "I think I've thought of a new nickname for you…" He trailed off, wanting her to ask him. That's when she noticed the large, dark stain on his faded shirt. Blood. And it was fresh.

She pointed a shaky finger at him. "Who's blood is that?"

He looked down, his expression almost one of bewildered surprise. "Funny. I don't really remember his name!" And then he collapsed at her feet.

Rachel knew what she would do as soon as he hit the ground. He needed her now. There was nothing she needed to know other than this. Harvey would be fine. And he needed her.

She leaned down, taking a deep breath and heaved him to his feet. Her hands caught under his arms and she felt something warm and wet. This was bad.

"What am I going to do with you?" She was talking more to herself than to him but he still gave a weak groan of a reply. Even halfway unconscious, he felt the need for his wisecracks.

She looked down at him as she pulled him in the direction of the open train door, thankful for once that it was empty. "Alright, smartass. Where can we go that you're not gonna get caught?"

He gave a weak, whispering sort of giggle as his head rested on her shoulder. He opened his eyes halfway to look up at her. "To the moon, Alice. To the moon."

Rachel rolled her eyes as she sat him next to her. "Well that is entirely unhelpful."

The train lurched forward and he fell against her. She put an arm around him to steady him and his hand came up to clasp around her wrist not un-gently. His head had fallen against her chest now and the next words he spoke were muffled. "Next stop. Up the metal stairs behind the moon." There was a pause and she thought his next words sounded almost apologetic - though she couldn't imagine why. "It's dark..."

"Of course it is. You've got your eyes closed."

"No. Not -" He sighed and it came out in a frustrated growl. But his side ached and he was so tired and his mind was already so heavy. He gave up and she felt his face in the crook of her shoulder. His hand fell from her wrist to rest against her stomach. Her other hand, the one that wasn't holding him up, came to rest on his and he didn't pull away.

She looked down at him. His eyes were closed and his breathing was even - she thought she heard him snore a little. She looked down as the lights of the moving train flashed outside. His fingers were curled around the flesh of her stomach. She lifted his large hand in hers, using this rare moment of weakness to study him in a way that he would never allow her to otherwise. His hand was rough, the nails broken and uneven, almost as if he was used to tearing at them with his teeth at nervous moments. She turned his hand to study his palm - there were smears of white and red makeup on the pads of his fingers and she shook her head and tried to rub them clean with her own. He stirred, his eyes opening, looking at their hands with a quizzical expression. She opened her mouth to give him an explanation but she could honestly think of none. But the train came to a stop, then, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Can you stand?" She asked as she braced herself on the vertical metal bar in front of them, ready to heave him to his feet if need be. "I'm not a fucking invalid." He was mumbling but he rose shakily to his feet before his knees buckled and gave out completely.

"You know, this is a lot easier for me when you're not sprawled out on the floor, Smiles."

He looked up at her, his eyes would have been threatening if they weren't so damned tired. And if his face wasn't currently pressed against her pant leg. "Stop calling me that."

"Well what am I supposed to call you?" You won't tell me your name. And I'd rather not call you the name your enemies gave you."

"Why not?"

She grunted as she pulled him to his feet once again, cursing herself for wearing her ridiculous heels. "Because I'm your friend, right?"

He scoffed and she pulled them out onto another train platform. She smiled wryly. This was getting to be their special place.

She looked around for the metal stairs he had mentioned, but all she saw were the concrete ones that led up and out into the street. She shifted him, her arms grasping tighter around his waist, bracing his chest with her shoulder as his head lulled against her cheek.

"That way." He said, nodding with his sagging head toward a door covered in graffiti. As she staggered closer, she noticed the door held an entire colorful scene. Taking up most of the space was a giant grinning moon set back against a star filled sky, his wide eyes staring down at two people on a balcony. At first glance, they appeared to be embracing but, as they walked closer, she noticed that they both had nooses wrapped tightly around their necks, tying them together. There was also a hideous bleeding bat hovering above them and, for some reason, a giant purple happy face. She had to admit, though, it was a gorgeous mural. Shades of blue and deep purple swirled up and around the figures and the moon, darkening as they got toward the bat and fading at the edges before flaring into beautiful red and orange flames that framed the entire scene.

"Did you - ?"

"Just open the door." His voice was straining and she could tell the exertion of shuffling along beside her, no matter how much she was supporting him, was wearing on him.

She twisted the knob and groaned as she took in the spiraling wrought iron staircase. There wasn't even a single light bulb to light their way and she knew, as soon as the painted door closed behind them, they would be left to climb these rickety stairs in complete darkness. So that's what he meant about it being dark.

She took a deep breath as he giggled a bit. She felt his hot breath against her neck and her stomach clenched not entirely unpleasantly. She took another breath, willing herself not to panic as she stepped through the door, letting it slam behind them. She held onto him, perhaps a little tighter than absolutely necessary, and felt with her toe for the first step.

"God..." It was a quiet plea but he had still heard it. And even in his injured state, he couldn't help but rail on her about it.

"Nope. Not here. Still just me, mouse."

"Shut up. You may be hurt, but I'm not at all averse to leaving you here right now and going home."

He leaned his head against her shoulder again and she felt his lips moving at her neck as he spoke. "Yes you are. Averse to it."

She took the next few steps a bit quicker than she had intended, trying to escape from the truth of his words. She stumbled on the top few stairs and nearly fell, but he steadied her, grunting painfully and laughing. "Who's helping who here?"

She gasped, breathing heavily from her near fall and holding him even tighter. "Well you're not exactly a feather weight, my friend." He grinned, though she couldn't see it in the dark and fumbled in his pocket for his key. She heard his pained hiss as the movement pulled on his wound and she pressed her hands to his waist. She stopped herself from asking him if he was alright. She already knew he wasn't.

He pushed the door open and leaned back against her with a sigh. The light from this room flooded around them and she moved into the space gratefully, her eyes wide and curious, taking it all in.

His living space was chillingly normal. There were simple furnishings that almost reminded her of her college dorm room. A frayed rug covered the hardwood floors. There was a small TV with rabbit ear antennae in one corner and a simple, brown sofa tilted to face it - worn and sagging. The single window in the room was mostly boarded up save for a few slivered cracks in the wood to let the light shine through. There must've been some sort of neon sign outside because the light that seeped through was red and flickering. There was a desk in another corner and the only lamp in the room sat atop it. The desk, she noted, was covered in piles of books and papers. So covered, in face, that they had spilled out from the surface of the desk and onto the floor. Piles and piles of books littered the floor, leaning in on themselves and looking as if they might fall at any minute.

They moved toward the room that she supposed was his bedroom as it was the only other doorway in the place, nearly tripping over the intricately patterned rug as she did so.

"Nice rug." She muttered as she flicked on the light in the tiny room with her elbow.

"Not mine. It, uh, came with the place." As the light flickered on, illuminating a simple wrought iron bed and a small chest of drawers - a pigeon glared at her and flew up to a perch near the ceiling. He nodded up at the bird. "He came with the place too. Name's Ronald."

Rachel couldn't help herself and chuckled. "What? After the McDonald's clown?" But he just ignored her.

Rachel sat him on the bed but he didn't stay upright for long, instead choosing to flop back with a groan so that he was laying horizontally, his legs hanging off the edge of the bed loosely.

"Alright. You've done your good deed for the day." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Though I wonder if it's still a good deed considering the actual-" He paused, clicking his tongue before resting his head back and closing his already half-closed eyes completely. "Considering the actual deed."

"You're not getting rid of me that easily." She muttered as she crawled onto the bed beside him, her hands sliding beneath his jacket, pulling it off. He raised his eyebrows but didn't bother to even open his eyes. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"

He hissed as she pulled his shirt away from the wounds on his torso. The blood was caked and partially dried and the shirt stuck to him like it had been pasted there. "I accidentally ran into a knife. Several times."

He laughed at his own joke as she ran her fingers lightly over his chest - lingering perhaps a little longer than she needed to. She rolled her eyes but supposed her 'kitchen knife fell on my hand! oops!' excuse hadn't been much better so she let it slide.

"By the way - " He grabbed her hand, stopping it from tracing the idle patterns on his skin. "That's, uh, getting me a little horny now. Thought you should know."

Rachel glared down at him, silently praying that he couldn't see the flush on her cheeks in the dim light of his bedroom. She snapped her hands away from him and scrambled off the bed.

"I didn't say you should stop!" He called after her as she made her way into the bathroom.

She pulled on the chain above her head as the bare bulb lit the tiny bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, except for a bit of clutter, it was fastidiously neat and clean. Sparse and starkly white. She opened the medicine cabinet and rummaged through the countless painkillers. Her eyes caught on one bottle and squinted to read the label. Definitely not Tylenol. She palmed the bottle and continued to rummage through the boxes of gauze, bottles of rubbing alcohol, and a rather random bottle of Captain Morgan. She smirked.

"What the hell are you after, Nurse Betty?" She whirled around, nearly dropping his bottle of sedatives. He was looking at her curiously, his head leaning tiredly against the door frame, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his shirt hanging open and loose over his slumping shoulders. He was curling into himself, very obviously in pain and also very obviously not caring.

She cautiously reached out, pulling on his sleeve as she grabbed the pills, the rubbing alcohol, and the gauze and led him back into the bedroom.

"C'mon. Don't be a hero." She knew as she said the words that she would probably be met with his customary choking laughter and some snide remark. But he merely shrugged and sighed as she laid him back down on the bed - the right way this time.

"Never tried to be."

She nodded. "I know. Don't think anyone expects you to be at this point."

He said nothing, just closed his eyes and turned his face away from hers.

"Lay still." She whispered as she leaned over him with the gauze and rubbing alcohol. She was so close, her hair brushed his skin. She thought she heard him sigh a bit at the contact, but it could very well have been him laughing again. She could never be sure. She slowly and carefully cleaned his wounds with the alcohol, wiping away the blood as his breathing became slightly louder and measured. It occurred to her that that was just how his breathing got whenever he was trying to control his growing arousal. The act of cleaning his open wounds with the stinging liquid was actually turning him on. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised.

"You shouldn't be here." He managed to say as he let out a steady stream of air through his clenched teeth. It came out in a hiss and Rachel was instantly reminded of a cobra ready to strike.

"I know I shouldn't." Rachel said as she neatly folded a large piece of gauze. "But 'shouldn't' never really stopped us before has it?"

He turned toward her as she taped the gauze over his wound and grasped her wrist firmly in his hand. But his hold on her didn't hurt. Not this time.

"I hurt you. A lot. Never stuck around long enough to do the clean up. Doesn't that upset you at all? Hm?"

She looked at him calmly and leaned over him. "Of course it does. Lucky for you, I'm not like you. Not at all."

He snorted and turned from her searching eyes. "Unlucky for you, I am like me."

She said nothing as she rose from her seated position on his bed. She went into the adjoining bathroom again and returned with a glass of water and two of the painkillers. She sat down again and held them in front of him. "Here."

He shook his head. "Don't need 'em. Not for this. Only when it gets bad."

She stared back at him, the disbelief evident in her clear brown eyes. He stared right back and blinked once.

"You saw that, uh, bottle of Captain in there, yeah? That'll do me just fine." He laughed. "Kind of like you, right Rosebud?" He leered at her and laughed again before the movement made him wince in pain.

She scoffed and turned away, disgusted. But he kept right on going, kept pressing just the right buttons as he was so good at with her.

"What? You know I'm right. And, uh, you already know how much I _love _the pain. We both do, am I right? I think that was clear enough that, uh, time we had in the kitchen. Remember? I'm sure that was some clean up you had to do the next morning." He licked his lips and sneered up at her. "All that blood and, uh, other bodily fluids. Musta been a bitch! You got one of those Swiffer wet jets I hope..." He trailed off, looking at her with that infuriating self-satisfied smile on his face.

She slammed the glass of water down so hard on the table beside his bed that the water sloshed over the sides. "You know what? You're a fucking psychotic ass and I'm done here." She got up and headed toward the door, grabbing her purse off the floor and flinging it over one shoulder.

"No, you're not done. You should be, but you're not!" He called after her as he heard his front door slam with a resounding crash and he was once again left alone in the dark to nurse his own wounds in silence.

...

Rachel hadn't been able to sleep all night. The bastard was seeping into her thoughts again as he had a month before. She kept telling herself that she couldn't possibly go back. He was fine. And even if he wasn't, it would be no great loss to the world if he died of infection and simply rotted away.

No great loss to anyone...

She groaned as she rolled over in her empty bed and peered over at the red flickering digital display of her alarm clock. Five AM. She would never get back to sleep before having to get up for work. So she crawled out of bed only to notice that her phone was flashing angrily at her. Harvey.

She sighed in relief, glad to know he was alright. She had almost forgotten. He was probably worried. But, for whatever reason, Rachel didn't answer until the fifth ring. And when she finally picked up, her voice held just a bit of reluctance. "Harvey! Thank God you're alright!"

"Rachel." His voice was strained but obviously relieved. "Where are you? Are you OK?"

Rachel's mind worked fast to come up with a story. "I'm fine, Harvey. I'm at my apartment, safe and sound. I'm just glad _you're _OK." When that mugger knocked you down..." She trailed off, hoping his imagination would fill in the details. "He tried grabbing my purse but I hit him with it and ran as fast as I could. Didn't stop till I got to the next station. I noticed I lost him and called 911 as soon as I could. They never gave me an update on your condition. Are you sure you're OK?"

Harvey chuckled. "Pride's hurt more than anything. I promise. The next time we go out, no opera and no violent muggings, got it?"

Rachel giggled, loving that this was a man who could make her laugh for all the right reasons. "You got a deal. Hey, I'll see you at the office. Glad you're alright."

"You too. Bye, Rachel."

Rachel hung up the phone, realizing with a sinking feeling that her mind was still being pulled in another direction completely separate from Harvey and from work. She would go to work first. But then she would see him again. She needed to know if he'd still be around, corrupting her life with that stinging pain of regret.

...

It took awhile for Rachel to remember the exact train stop and, when she did, her search for the mural that led to his apartment turned out to be a much bigger feet than she had anticipated. It was hidden in a corner behind a dumpster. She would never had been able to find it had she not been looking for it. She passed the mural, running her fingers lightly across the surface as she walked on toward the simple wooden door behind it. But when she opened the door, she was brought face to face with a man with an odd smile.

Rachel's heart stopped, but quickly realized it wasn't who she thought. The man was smaller boned, his features almost innocent and boyish. His dark hair swept across his nervously darting eyes.

He looked at her without even seeing her and spoke in a quick, stuttering voice. "D-don't go in there! Boss is angry today. Don't follow him! E-ever! He gets mad. Madder than all-already!" The man nodded and shuffled off. Rachel stared after him. Smiles certainly keeps good company, she thought to herself as she ignored the stuttering man's warnings and made her way once again up the darkened stairs.

Rachel opened his door to find him limping around his room, hurrying, as fast as he could hurry at any rate, gathering up his books and papers into cardboard boxes. He didn't even look up as he heard the door open - bent as he was over a scroll of maps and architectural plans. His face was drawn but he did look better than last night. Rachel was surprised at how relieved she was by this.

"Schiff, dammit! I told you you're lucky you still have your tuh-testicles in-tuh-tact. You really willing to test me again, Porky?"

Rachel cleared her throat and his head shot up. The dark circles under his eyes were even more prominent and Rachel urged herself not to think about her desire to run her thumbs over them and smooth out the lines and shadows in his face.

"Oh. It's you. You came back. Like a boomerang! That's a good one. Boomerang. Love the first syllable. Hey. Never did tell you that new nickname I thought up for you. Remind me later."

He was rambling but Rachel cut him short. "How do you know I'll be here later?

He shrugged and busied himself with his packing. "I know _I_ won't. Asshole Schiff followed me here last night after the job. Said he had something important to tell me. Turns out he, uh, just wanted to let me know that his shoes say I'm in trouble." He snorted in disgust and threw a leather bound, expensive looking book into a box with a little more force than necessary. "Told him to leave if he liked his balls attached to his body and not sitting in a jar on my mantle." He looked around, a bit confused and smacked his lips. "A mantle I...apparently never had. Oh well."

Rachel stared at him, her arms crossed over her chest so she wouldn't reach out to try and touch him. "That why you're packing? No more safe house?"

"Only had one of those." He was muttering into the pages of yet another ancient book. He threw that one down too, angry suddenly, eyes flashing at her. "You're right, though. Can't have him blabbing my location to the others. I don't trust that rat as far as I could throw him."

Rachel paused, realizing only now how significant it was that he had willingly given up his location to her last night. "And how far could you throw me, Smiles?"

He looked up at her, a sad smile on his face and a haunted look in his eyes. "Don't think I haven't been wanting to try. But I'm, uh, I'm only guessing here, I think I could throw you pretty damn far. And don't think I'm not finished trying, either. Hope you've got some wings to go with that ever present halo, Rach."

"I'm no angel, Smiles."

He heaved another pile of papers into another box with a grunt, not looking at her. "Never wanted you to be."

"I wasn't aware you wanted me to be anything."

"Not anything you aren't already."

She smirked and moved to sit on the floor beside him. He didn't even look up but instead continued to pack.

"Why are you still here?"

She shrugged. "Wanted to see if you were alright. Stupid."

"Well. You see me. You don't have to stick around."

Rachel ignored him and peered into the box he was packing curiously. "You don't ever stay in any one place for long, do you?"

"You're full of fucking questions you already know the answers to today, aren't you, Butterball?" He tugged the box she was trying to look into closer to him with a protective gesture and fixed a deadly glare on her. "I'm, uh, not gonna put up with you much longer."

Rachel go up with a frustrated groan. "OK. Fine. I don't even know why I keep - never mind. I'm leaving."

"Tell Harv I said hi. And sorry for the concussion. Wish it had been worse."

Rachel rolled her eyes when something on the floor caught her eye - a tiny scrap of paper - a torn piece of newspaper clipping wedged into one of the books he had been packing.

"Your name is Jack." It wasn't even a question as she reached out to grab the yellowed clipped picture. It was him - well half of him as it had been torn in half leaving only a bit of the caption reading simply "Searching Jack."

His head snapped up and he read the question in her eyes. "If you even think about asking me another question, I swear I'll rip your spleen out and send it to Dent."

"What happened to you?"

"How long you got?"

Rachel reached down and handed the picture back to him - their hands touched as he took it and they lingered, his hovering over hers, the pads of his fingers subtly stroking her palm.

"You can stay. Helps me clear my - uh - calm my - " He stopped and shook his head, dropping his hand into his lap uselessly. "No. Not that. You can help me pack."

"What if I don't want to stay?" She looked at him curiously, all the while knowing she would.

"Just...pack."

They said nothing for a few minutes as she sat beside him again and returned to piling papers into boxes.

"This in any particular order?" She asked finally, biting her tongue for the question and silently saying goodbye to her spleen. Did you really need one of those anyway?

But he just looked at her with his "why are you such a moron?" look.

"What do you think?"

"I think nothing in your life is in order and I also think you like it that way."

"Sometimes." He stared at her for so long she thought that maybe his wounds had been worse than he thought and he had just slipped into a mini coma. She spoke, then, in an attempt to jumpstart him somehow. "You know, you never did tell me that other nick name you had for me."

He looked down and picked at a loose thread on his olive colored pants. "Was waiting for you to ask."

"Well. I'm asking. I'm a little hesitant but I - "

"Prism." He cut her off sharply, not even looking back up.

"What?"

"Prism. You - every time I see you, every time you turn, there's a new color I haven't noticed before. It's, uh, kind of magnificent." He looked at her, his eyes oddly open when they were free of the harsh dark makeup surrounding them. "You, uh, it's bright and you glow. Yeah. Don't get to see that too often."

She looked at him for only a moment before she leaned forward, brushing the hair from his eyes and kissed him.

He pulled back, almost startled, but then leaned into her before a low growl built in the back of his throat. He snarled and bit at her lips - pushing on her shoulders and his fingers dug painfully at her hips as he drug her skirt up over her thighs.

But she pushed back at him, slapping him hard across his scarred mouth. "No. Not like that. Not this time."

He glared at her as he hovered above her, his arms bracing themselves on either side of her. She ran her hands lightly up his arms then gently stroked across his bare face. She brought him down to her then, her back arching to meet him.

"Jack..." She whispered the word against his ruined lips before kissing him again, the tip of her tongue tracing patterns on his open mouth. He moaned into her mouth and rested his hand under her shirt on the soft, unprotected flesh of her stomach.

She sighed as he sent his fingers dancing up her ribcage and finally resting on her left breast, his leg coming up to kneel between her own to steady himself, his thigh pressing deliciously between her own.

"Jack."

"Sometimes. I can be."

She smiled and pushed against him so that he was laying on his back beneath her. "Jack." She said it again, loving the familiarity of it. Loving the way it sounded. The lightness of it as she trailed her fingers down to the button of his trousers.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Shut up already and just keep - " He waved his hands in the air, pushing for her to continue. "Just keep doing...whatever you were gonna do."

She laughed as she leaned down, her hair brushing against his stomach. "I think I've got a new nickname for you. Impatient Jerkoff."

"Mm. Think I like Smiles better."

She laughed again as she unzipped his trousers and wrapped her hand around the entire width of him. He hissed and arched his hips up ever so slightly to meet her hand. She smirked and leaned down, her eyes never leaving his face as she took him in her mouth, her tongue circling around his length deliciously and he cried out - a husky choked sound that reminded her of his constant pained laughter.

She crawled up over him, positioning herself above him, her skirt riding up past her hips as his hands held her there, pulling her down onto him. He made another sound low in his throat and she smiled down at his face - twisted for once not in a hateful sneer but in pure pleasure. She decided with a strangling and sudden fear that she could look at his face like that forever.

She bit her lip as she rose and fell above him, his hands gripping her waist, her hands trailing over his chest, her hair falling between them, tickling at his neck. And with one more strategically placed thrust into her, he made a small noise deep in his throat as he released himself into her. She smiled down at him as his breathing slowed.

He closed his eyes - not wanting to look at her when she was looking at him like that. She wasn't supposed to be.

And then she was crawling on top of him, folding her body against his on the floor, her arms wrapping around his waist, her head resting against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, hearing the gentle thudding of his heart beat - reveling in the quiet hidden humanity of him.

"It's cold in here." She said at last. His hands were limp at his sides and she brought one arm up to fold around her shoulders. He didn't even open his eyes.

Mm. Not a blanket." But his other arm came up to wrap around her back and waist hesitantly. He was tracing idle patterns on her back with his nimble fingers - probably pictures of skulls and corpses and burning bat cowls. But she wouldn't think about that now.

Somehow, they ended up on his bed as the last of the light faded in the autumn sky. The red neon sign outside cast funny shadows on his face as he rolled off of her again with a sigh and looked down at her with a small grin.

"What's so funny?" She asked between her breathless panting, she wiped the slight sheen of sweat that had gathered on her forehead as he propped himself up on one elbow to gaze down at her.

"This. You and me. Talk about sleeping with the enemy, right?"

"Just...Don't talk. I like it better when you don't talk."

He didn't say anything for awhile - just laid beside her - the tips of their fingers the only things touching. But then he was giggling to himself again and she groaned and rolled onto her side to face him - looking at him with raised eyebrows expectantly. "What?"

He tried to stop, but the laughing only got louder and more difficult to control. "This whole situation is funny, don't you think? This was over even before it began. But that's life, innit? It gives and it takes away."

She frowned at him. "Yeah. Now I know why I like it better when you don't talk. You remind me that you're...you." She turned her back to him, bringing the covers up around her shoulders.

He stopped laughing and she thought she heard him sigh in the darkness. And then he was whispering, she felt his breath brushing against her neck and she turned her head to look at him, bringing her face inches from his.

"I think I don't hate you anymore, Rachel." She brought her palm up to rest against his scarred cheek and he leaned into the contact, closing his eyes, still smiling. Still wanting to laugh it all off. "But that doesn't mean I don't fucking hate feeling like this."

She nodded and pressed her lips against his, her hands trailing across his face. He was still smiling that haunted smile even as she kissed him. Even as the red light outside flashed above them.

...

AN: So it only took me...what...five and a half millennia to finish this chapter? I hope I can still keep you guys interested. And if not? Oh well. My own fault for not updating on a regular basis. But I *will* finish this story. I have to...even if no one is reading anymore. (Please say you're still reading? Please? Even if there's only one person out there, living in his mom's basement and making sweaters out of human hair while anxiously awaiting the next chapter. As long as *someone* is still reading.) This is one of those stories that just keeps hanging around no matter how much I neglect it, scream at it, fling it across the room in frustration, or abuse its characters (ie by making The Joker into a looove machine). Poor story. I've been looking into getting it to join a support group.

So anyway, there is an end in sight. And hopefully now that my personal life is a bit settled again, I can get back into the swing of things. Chapter 6 is already done and Chapter 7...is still waiting patiently to get past the intro stage.

Things to expect in Chapter 6...

-Dead people. Lots of dead people.

-Mr. Rogers.

-An unapologetic change in point of view (despite the unapologetic part...I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to my 11th grade English teacher for this one...She would've been horrified. Also, sorry about liking Hemingway. What can I say? He was a misogynistic ass. A talented misogynistic ass.)

-An unexpected visitor

-Vampires. No. Really. (OK, maybe not *really*...you'll just have to wait and see.)

-Schiff! Eating a bag of Joker Chips!

...OK, that last one is totally not going to happen. Ever. Sorry.


End file.
